CAITLIN spent three hours with the elderly woman. Granny talked about her grandparents, who had been among the first white children in the district, born in primitive conditions to women who had followed their men out into ‘the bush’.
Their families had been large, medical support scanty, but in Granny’s tales, those women had lived out their lives in rough bark shanties, brought up their surviving children with strength and courage and shared an abiding optimism in the new country’s future.
Granny had delighted in regaling her guest with the medical horrors of those days—childbed fever, stillborn infants and rough bush do-it-yourself medicine, but she had drawn links between those pioneering families and given Caitlin other names.
‘You’ve been a wonderful help,’ Caitlin said, when she sensed Granny was tiring. ‘I’d like to come back and see you again, not to ask questions but to listen to your stories.’
Granny smiled at her.
‘I’d like that,’ she said, and reached out to take Caitlin’s hand. ‘Did Connor tell you what was wrong with me?’
Caitlin shook her head.
‘Although I did a full medical degree and worked in hospitals for a few years, I’m here as a researcher, not a doctor,’ she explained. ‘He wouldn’t talk to me about his patients.’
‘Phooey!’ Granny snorted. ‘He’s far too uptight about things like that—as if everyone in town doesn’t know who’s got what disease.’
She smiled at Caitlin, then added, ‘I’ve got it too, leukaemia, but a different kind to what the children had. They could treat it with that chemo stuff but it’d make me so sick, what’s the point? So Connor brings me in when I get tired and puts good blood back into me and that keeps me going a bit longer. We’ve talked about it, Connor and I, how it will be. He’s a good man.’
This recommendation stayed with Caitlin as she walked up to the town to get some basic supplies. She’d drive to the supermarket later to shop properly, but after the session with Granny she’d needed to stretch her legs and breathe some fresh air.
Needed to get the ‘good man’ out of the forefront of her mind, too.
She reached the bakery to find it packed with customers, so she pulled out her notebook, studying her notes while she waited to be served. Ask Mrs Jenkins—see James at the garage. It was as if Granny understood the importance of accuracy and had added these people as corroboratory sources, like annotations in a textbook.
‘Help you, miss?’
‘Sorry! I’d like a poppy seed bagel and a loaf of sliced wholemeal,’ Caitlin said, wondering where all the other customers had gone. Surely she wasn’t turning into the much-caricatured absent-minded scientist.
‘You’re the research person, aren’t you?’ the plump assistant asked cheerfully as she passed the plastic-wrapped bread to Caitlin and grasped a pair of stainless-steel tongs to delve into the cabinet for the bagel. ‘I’m related to Aaron through the Russells. Not real close, mind you, but I’m one of the red ones.’
She flung back a mane of extravagantly curled red hair.
‘Any red hair you see in this town, there’s sure to be some Russell in them somewhere, although Granny and young Aaron’s family are black Russells. Mostly.’
Caitlin watched as her informant manoeuvred the captured bagel into a crisp white paper bag. She knew news travelled fast in country towns, but this fast? And as to opposition, apart from Connor, everyone she’d met so far had greeted her with enthusiasm, not doubts and forewarnings of disaster. OK, so it was only three people, hardly a widespread sample, but all three had been unanimous in their interest.
‘That’s three dollars fifty,’ the woman added, plonking the white package on the counter. ‘Do you think we’ll be on TV again? The town, I mean?’
Uh-oh! Was this what lay behind the communal interest? The lure of momentary stardom on the small screen? Caitlin counted out some change and handed it to the woman.
‘I really doubt it,’ she said, but her denial hadn’t been heard, for the woman was speaking again, explaining how the front of the shop had been in the first shot and her daughter had been coming out at that very moment. Fleeting moments of glory!
‘Great!’ Caitlin said heartily, knowing a response of awe or wonder was indicated. ‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you. I’ll see you again.’
She made her escape, her head jostling with thoughts of red Russells and TV cameras. Even if her research proved successful, she knew it would be a beginning, not the kind of headline-grabbing breakthrough TV news devoured with nightly gusto.
People nodded to her as she walked along the street. Did they all know who she was, or was it their customary politeness to a stranger? She nodded back, and kept walking, past a newsagent, a shoe shop, a narrow-fronted supermarket and up to the hotel on the corner. Across the road, people walked in and out of the post office, and further down the street she could see a bank and fresh-produce market. Typical country town—a wide main street with dusty vehicles parked at an angle to the kerb.
Yet not so typical if Connor was to be believed. Rounding the corner beneath the overhanging veranda of the old hotel, she pulled the bagel out of the bag. Now she was out of the main street—out of the public eye—she could satisfy the demands of her stomach and eat it on her way home.
Home? Could she call that sparsely furnished temporary dwelling home? She finished the bagel and grinned to herself.
Yep! While she had a bed and her beloved computer, with a modem to link her to the lab, anywhere could be home.
Above her, a bird called to his mate, and she found her grin fading. Had Connor been right to scorn her life? Shouldn’t there be more?
She shrugged the questions aside. One day! She’d always told herself that one day she’d want more—perhaps a man, possibly marriage, probably children. But first she had to cement her place in her chosen scientific field, make sure the niche she was carving for herself with such determined dedication, stubbornly butting her head against the brick walls of doubt and prejudice, was secure.
Crossing the road to the hospital, she paused on the pavement, seeing the child she’d once been flying high on the swing. Was she still like that child—always wanting to go higher and higher? Would ‘one day’ never come because of her ambition?
‘Dr O’Shea!’
The male voice drew her back to the real world. Mike Nelson stood on the veranda of the hospital, beckoning her.
She walked briskly towards him, pleased to be diverted from such uncustomary and puzzling thoughts.
‘Your boss phoned,’ Mike said when she was close enough for normal conversation. ‘Said he’d tried to email you some new information on the viral research, but the email bounced back so he sent it to the hospital computer.’ Mike handed her a folder with a sheaf of paper in it. ‘This is it. On a more personal note, my wife also phoned. Said she’d already asked Connor to eat with us tonight and wondered if you’d like to join us.’
Caitlin felt a familiar irritation flicker down her spine. If there was one thing she hated when she was working, it was social invitations. They forced her into making polite noises and showing interest in other subjects while her mind was grappling with tenuous and unstable theories.
Still, she’d hardly started working and she needed all the co-operation she could garner in this town. She smiled at Mike.
‘I’d be delighted. What time and where?’
He returned her smile.
‘Seven. I’ll ask Connor to drive you, it’s silly taking two cars. See you then.’
Mike turned away, disappearing through the front door of the hospital.
Caitlin stared after him, thinking about his smile. If he’d been a woman she’d have suspected it was smug—a little unsubtle matchmaking at work here?
And that thought brought its own reaction—the slightly breathless feeling and arrhythmias again.
Ridiculous! she scolded herself, as she made her way around to her temporary home. It was too soon to be imagining an attraction to Connor Clarke, and ‘one day’ was still a long way off!
Forcing her mind back to work mode, she glanced at the information Mike had given her, sorted her own notes into order and entered some of the data into the computer. Then, using Melissa’s lists, she phoned the Laurence and Jackson homes to make appointments for the following day.
Neither Judy Laurence nor Anne Jackson—’it’s Ms not Mrs’—seemed surprised by her call. On the contrary, they seemed interested, even eager. Both would be happy to see her on the following day and, no, neither felt Connor’s presence would be necessary.
That’s one up to me, Dr Clarke, Caitlin thought, surprising herself with her gleeful delight. She jotted down the appointment times beside the addresses, and wondered what he’d have to say about it when she saw him later.
Connor came at seven to collect her. Caitlin was ready, dressed in a conservative calf-length skirt and shirt she’d brought with her, hoping to impress the country people with a ‘sensible’ and ‘practical’ image. She’d also decided not to mention work. If he wanted to discuss it, let him bring it up.
Reminding herself of this, she opened the door to him—a tall, well-built man wearing fawn chinos and a dark jade shirt that would no doubt highlight the green in his eyes. Although he was standing in the glare of the security light outside her door, she couldn’t see his eyes, for he had turned towards the hospital where someone had let out a piercing wolf-whistle.
‘That’s Nellie,’ he grumbled, as Caitlin stepped out to join him and pulled the door shut behind her. ‘Can’t bear to think she might be missing something. I should go over and tell her we’re just going up to Mike’s for dinner, and that it’s strictly business.’
‘Well, heaven forbid she might think it was a date,’ Caitlin muttered scathingly, disconcerted by her reaction to his words.
He turned towards her and chuckled.
‘Sorry! That sounded rude, didn’t it? Incidentally, you should lock the door when you’re not here. Not that I think anyone would steal anything, but there are curious people everywhere. They’d not see anything wrong in walking into an unlocked house to check out your possessions.’
‘A computer and a bed?’ Caitlin teased, pleased his mood had lightened. ‘Anyway, as far as I know, there’s no key. Certainly not one in the lock.’
Connor looked down at her and frowned. So much for a lightened mood!
‘There should be a key,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ll go over and tell Nellie to keep an eye out tonight and find one for you tomorrow.’
He strode away, halted suddenly, then turned back towards her.
‘Come along, I’ll introduce you.’
Gracious invitation, she thought as she followed his tall figure across to the hospital. What on earth was eating the man?
Connor took the steps in one bound, then turned to see if the visitor was following.
Which was a mistake. He should have continued to ignore her. It would have caused fewer problems in his groin.
‘You there, Nellie?’ he called, motioning Caitlin into the section of the kitchen accessible to all. ‘This is Dr O’Shea. We’re both going up to Mike’s for dinner and there’s no key for her front door. She’s got a computer over there and I wouldn’t like sticky fingers mucking up her programs so keep an eye on the place, would you?’
He watched the two women shake hands, ignoring his words completely as they exchanged pleasantries. Still, their conversation gave him time to take another look at Caitlin—a long, careful look while he puzzled over why such a prim outfit should increase the wretched woman’s sexiness, not detract from it.
‘I said go off and enjoy yourselves,’ Nellie repeated, waving her hand to shoo them out of the kitchen. ‘I’m done here till supper-time so I’ll be sitting out the back, blowing a bit of smoke around. No trouble to keep an eye on the house.’
He opened his mouth to remonstrate—again—about Nellie’s nicotine addiction, then shut it. Who was he to be giving orders to other people about their lives when his own had been so thoroughly dislocated by this woman’s arrival in town?
Caitlin had said goodbye and walked away. He followed, more slowly now, feeling the night air fold around him, smelling a faint sweet perfume as if the beautiful visitor trailed some special scent.
‘Your carriage is over this way,’ he said, embarrassed by the thought. Now he hurried to catch up. He took her arm and led her towards his hefty Landcruiser. ‘It’s not as flashy as your speed machine, but it’s practical out here.’
She smiled up at him and he felt a peculiar hollowness in his chest, as if his lungs had gone on holiday, and taken his heart with them.
‘My dad drove a Landcruiser,’ she told him. ‘I got my licence in one of these.’
And without waiting for him to open the door, she did the honours herself and swung up into the passenger seat, totally unaware of him as anything other than a chauffeur for the night—thankfully unaware of his reaction to her.
‘How did you get on with Granny?’ he asked, breaking a silence that seemed too loud.
‘Fine. She’s great,’ Caitlin responded, but her tone was distracted, and when she turned towards him, the anxiety that now accompanied him everywhere like an unwanted shadow returned. ‘In fact, so was Melissa, and the woman in the bakery, and even Nellie seemed happy to have me here. So far, Dr Clarke, you’re the only one who’s made negative noises about my research in the town. Why’s that?’
Because I’m the only one with enough sense to see where it could lead?
No, that not only sounded patronising, it was.
And he could hardly use a presentiment of danger, an inexplicable fear, as an excuse.
‘Let’s wait and see,’ he compromised. ‘Remember, I’m also a stranger here. Perhaps I’m reading the situation wrongly—overreacting.’
Yet even as he spoke the placatory words his gut wrenched with memories of Angie—of the white skeletal bones and remnants of hair and flesh he’d had to touch and handle as he’d sought answers on the autopsy table.
It was no good telling himself her death was unrelated to what had been happening in the town at the time she’d disappeared when every instinct denied this assertion. Those same instincts—back when Angie had been missing for a couple of months—had prompted him to apply for the post in Turalla and had convinced him he needed to set his own ambition aside, at least until he’d tried to find out more.
Connor glanced towards his passenger who was looking around with the innocent interest of any visitor, and shook his head.
After two years in Turalla, quietly seeking clues to Angie’s disappearance, he’d been almost ready to believe her death had been what everyone said it was—an accident. Now one brief faxed message had short-circuited his brain—one beautiful blonde had thrown the switch and, in his mind at least, fused the past and present.
‘Is this a new housing estate? The height’s unexpected. Walking uptown the area looks completely flat.’
It took him a moment to work out what Caitlin had said, to regain the equanimity he needed for normal conversation.
‘About five years old. The hills begin here with this slight rise, then run parallel to each other out across the plains for about forty miles. You don’t realise how orderly they are until you’re in the air. From a plane they look like lines drawn on a map. It’s some kind of geological phenomenon.’
Normal conversation? He sounded like a schoolteacher.
‘This is Mike’s place.’
Had she heard the relief in his voice? Probably, for she was out of the car before he had the engine turned off, and was looking down at the streetlights which marked the straight grids of the town.
Sue welcomed them both, kissing him warmly and shaking hands with Caitlin, chattering on about how nice it was to have a new face at the hospital, even if it was only on a temporary basis.
‘Let them come in,’ Mike protested, ushering them all through the door. He led Caitlin to a comfortable chair, adding apologetically, ‘Sue is always so pleased to have adult conversation, she tends to get over-excited.’
His wife threw a playful jab at his shoulder. ‘I’ve got the qualifications to do your job. How about I take over for a week and let you handle the ankle-biters?’
‘I bet he wouldn’t last a day,’ Connor said, but his eyes were on Caitlin who was smiling at the by-play, a relaxed, natural smile that lit up her eyes and put a glow on her skin.
Or was that make-up? He really didn’t know. The only certainty was that he wanted to keep on looking at her—which would be hard if he persuaded her to go away.
‘He’s lost to us,’ Sue said in a mournful voice, and he spun around to see her smirking at him—in fact, Mike was also smirking.
‘I’ll have a light beer,’ he said, hoping that was what they’d asked. The laughter which greeted his reply told him he’d guessed wrong. Even Caitlin was laughing, a low, throaty sound that seemed to ripple in the air before settling in his ears.
‘I’ll get it,’ Mike responded. ‘Perhaps you’d better come with me. You can open the wine and I’ll ask you again if the new Blair is a girl or boy. I left early this afternoon. Ellie was still in the delivery suite.’
Connor groaned. Talk about foot in mouth!
‘She had a boy,’ he said, following Mike into the kitchen, but Caitlin’s laughter followed him, like an echo he wanted to hear again and again.
Caitlin was glad he’d gone. She’d met attractive men before but none who’d caused this dizzy feeling, as if her body had been spun out of balance.
‘What children do you have?’ she asked Sue, a petite redhead. A red Russell? she wondered as Sue listed her brood.
‘Katrina, Peter, Jessica and Mark. The last two are twins, giving me four under five. Don’t ever think having two at once is an easy way of getting your family over and done with. They’re double trouble, nothing more.’
She went on to list the twins’ latest exploits and iniquities, but Caitlin heard the strong maternal love beneath the gripes in the other woman’s voice. Was she missing something, not having children? Would she still have time for a family, once she’d got where she was going?
A loud cry off-stage had Sue out of her chair, and out of the room, in seconds.
Mike and Connor returned, and Caitlin forgot children and the future, intent only on getting through an evening in Connor’s presence without revealing the effect he had on her.
‘So? Did you have a successful session with Granny?’ Mike asked, handing her a glass of wine and lifting his beer in a traditional salute.
‘Granny Russell? How does she fit into your research?’ Sue returned, demanding answers. ‘Unless it’s on longevity, or geriatrics with extraordinary memories. I thought you were here about the children who had leukaemia?’
Caitlin smiled at her.
‘I am. I’m just looking at it from a different angle—seeking genetic links.’
Sue took the glass of beer Connor offered and sipped at it, frowning thoughtfully.
‘Well, finding genetic links in this town shouldn’t be too hard. Before the mine was opened, just about everyone was related to each other—which makes it very difficult to gossip about anyone! You could have a field day here.’
‘Too many relationships can be as bad as too few,’ Caitlin explained. ‘It’s hard to untie the skeins to see the single threads.’
‘Then couldn’t you begin with the children who had leukaemia—with their genetic make-up? I was reading an article on DNA mapping in a medical journal recently,’ Mike said.
‘Surely you have DNA information on the children who contracted the disease?’ Connor added, his voice expressing his hope that she might not have to pursue this other course.
Caitlin nodded, taking time to calm the prick of anger. OK, so she’d known she didn’t have this man’s support, but did he have to be so eager to be rid of her?
Choosing her words with care, she said, ‘We have the results of blood tests from the children who were affected but no one at the time did DNA tests on the samples. DNA testing is expensive, so it’s not done unless there’s a reason.’
‘And you’re looking for a reason—I can follow that,’ Sue said, beaming at Caitlin. ‘What will you need?’
Caitlin smiled at her enthusiasm, wishing it was easy to explain.
‘I won’t really know until I find it but, say, for instance, I discover that all the children had an ancestor in common—’
‘How far back?’ Sue demanded, and Mike laughed.
‘Let the woman finish a sentence,’ he suggested.
‘That’s another thing I don’t know,’ Caitlin told her. ‘We know some recessive or mutated genes can skip generations, but I’ve a time restriction as well, so I’m thinking perhaps great-great.’
‘OK, I’ve got that.’ Sue prompted her to continue but one look at Connor’s face suggested he’d had more than enough.
Caitlin hesitated, and Connor, perhaps sensing the reason for her hesitation, said, ‘Go on.’
She did, but reluctantly, still feeling his opposition. ‘Say all the children had the same ancestor, but as well as the five who contracted the disease there were another forty children with the same blood lines, and maybe twenty of them would have been within the peak age group for developing leukaemia.’
‘So you’d DNA-test the ones who didn’t get it as well as the ones who did?’ Sue said, and Caitlin nodded.
‘But first,’ she warned, ‘I’ve got to find out if such bloodlines exist. If they don’t then that’s another theory gone west and I have to start again.’
‘Maybe you could DNA-test the whole town,’ Sue suggested. ‘Get a mighty sample to play with.’
‘I think there are ethical constraints there,’ Connor reminded her.
‘And Caitlin’s already mentioned the cost,’ Mike added.
‘And time!’ Sue was now arguing against herself. ‘Didn’t I read where a DNA test could take up to six weeks?’
Caitlin answered her.
‘Yes, but new processes are being developed all the time, including one where quite complicated tests can be done in two days. Instead of the results being printed out in the familiar “bar code” result, the make-up of the DNA is shown as letters of the alphabet.’
‘And I thought bar codes were for supermarkets,’ Sue said, rising to her feet again. ‘I want you all to stop this conversation right now while I dish up the dinner, then you can explain to me, Caitlin. It’s time my brain had something more challenging than Lego houses and nursery rhymes.’
But the dinner conversation wasn’t on genetic testing; instead, it ranged far and wide, only returning to the reason for Caitlin’s presence in the town when they were sipping their coffee.
‘I know you’ve both been avoiding the subject,’ Sue said, looking first at Connor, then at Caitlin. ‘But I’m serious about wanting to know more about DNA and your project, Caitlin. I’m happy at the moment, being at home with the kids, but I do want to go back to nursing eventually and I don’t want to be left too far behind. Forgetting the technical stuff for the moment, what are you going to do once you’ve done your family trees and got your samples?’
‘I can look at both similarities and differences in their genetic make-up. I’m actually working from the premise of a viral cause and trying to find out why it affects some people and not others.’
‘What genetic structure predisposes one person to be immune while others aren’t? Yes, I can see that,’ Mike said.
Caitlin smiled at him, pleased by his interest, praying for his support. She had a feeling she’d need plenty of that in the future—particularly with Connor so against her work.
‘The benefit of a small town is that—’
‘You’re likely to have a common pool of breeding stock,’ Sue said slowly. ‘Fertile ground for a geneticist.’
‘Makes us sound like a mob of cattle,’ Mike protested. ‘I’m glad I’m an outsider.’
‘But I’m not,’ Sue said.
Caitlin heard constraint in her voice and felt a coolness in the air, as if the easy camaraderie between them had been stirred by a chill wind. She glanced at Connor, who had warned her about this, and read the condemnation in his eyes.
‘Being from the town doesn’t automatically put your children on a danger list. In fact, there may never be a danger list!’ he said to Sue, leaning a little closer to her as if to offer physical comfort. ‘As Caitlin said before, she might prove nothing—it’s just a theory and so many theories lead to dead ends.’
‘But if it did turn into something, I’d certainly want you and the children tested,’ Mike said. ‘Even if we discovered there was a genetic possibility of one of them contracting ALL. At least then we’d know to keep an eye on him or her—have regular blood tests taken. It would be a safeguard.’
‘But the fear…’ Sue whispered, the words only a breath above a whisper.
Connor glanced at Caitlin and read the dawning comprehension in her eyes. He should have felt satisfaction, but sympathised instead. Until she spoke—angered, he was certain, by her own moment of doubt.
‘So do I not proceed because it’s going to dangle the sword of Damocles above some heads?’ she demanded. ‘Do we deny ourselves the slim possibility of finding a clue to the prevention of one form of cancer because we don’t want to upset the town?’
She was asking Connor, not Sue, so he answered.
‘Nothing is ever that cut and dried. Starting something like this is like casting a stone into a large pond. Who knows how far the ripples will spread, or what they might wash to the surface?’ He reached out and touched her lightly on the hand. ‘I know all the logical arguments and agree that Turalla presents a unique opportunity for your work, but I wish we could foresee the problems.’
‘And have strategies set in place to deal with them?’ Mike smiled as he spoke. ‘It’s a great theory, mate, but you know as well as I do it’s near impossible in practice. Like everything else, we’ll have to wait and see—and cope with any fallout if and when it happens. As Caitlin said, she can’t not do the work because something might happen.’
Connor looked at his friend. Hard to explain that it wasn’t ‘might’ that worried him but a presentiment of danger which he, the most prosaic of men, had never felt before. No, Mike would laugh at him and tell him he must be sickening for something.
He glanced towards Caitlin who was talking quietly to Sue, about children—healthy children.
Perhaps he was sickening for something. It would explain a lot of things.
But not why his eyes were drawn to her face, his ears to her voice—his body, if he didn’t have it under such iron control, to hers!
‘Perhaps you’d better take him home,’ Mike suggested, and the two women laughed.
‘Was I snoring?’ he countered.
‘No,’ Sue assured him. ‘Just not with us. I asked you three times if you’d be golfing on Saturday. It’s my turn, remember.’ She turned to Caitlin. ‘Mike and I take turns to play week and week about—the other minds the kids. Do you play?’
Caitlin shook her head, fielding a slight stab of regret that she’d never learnt—then reminding herself work was more important to her.
‘Not that it matters while I’m up here,’ she replied. ‘I’d prefer to get the research done even if it means working through the weekends.’
‘The sooner you finish, the sooner you can be out of the place, is that it?’ Connor asked, and Caitlin spun to face him, reacting to a hardness in the question, not the words.
‘But you can’t work all the time,’ Sue told her, before Caitlin could deny Connor’s assertion. ‘Sunday night’s always barbecue night at Connor’s. Half the hospital turns up, so that’s one date you can’t avoid.’
Caitlin waited for Connor’s eyes to second the invitation, to show some gleam of hospitality if not enthusiasm for her presence. No go! They were as darkly sombre as they’d been earlier when he’d scolded her for not locking the door. Was there another reason why he didn’t want her in Turalla? Perhaps his concern wasn’t for the town—perhaps he had some other agenda.
‘We should be on our way,’ was all he said, and Caitlin took the hint, thanking Mike and Sue, promising Sue she’d keep in touch and, yes, meet her for coffee uptown one day. She followed Connor out the door, and felt the cool night air brush against her skin.
‘They’re good people,’ he said as he opened the car door for her.
‘Do you think I can’t see that?’ she demanded, thinking he was attacking her again, however obliquely.
He touched her arm, a soothing gesture that failed in its effect—instead, sending ripples of alarm along her nerves.
‘Hey, I wasn’t meaning anything beyond those words. They’re nice folk, I like them—that’s the beginning and the end.’
She looked up at him. He met her eyes and what she saw there made her forget Mike, and Sue, and research—and how to breathe.
‘It’s the moonlight,’ she muttered to herself, hoisting her body into the car and pulling the door shut before he had a chance to do his polite bit.
‘That’s all?’ he asked when he joined her in the vehicle. She stared at him, then realised he must have heard her words. ‘I hope so,’ he added obscurely.
She shifted in her seat, made restless by the feeling of confinement in the spacious car. Connor must be taking up too much space, stealing too much air, for his presence to be affecting her like this.
Half smiling at her own nonsensical thoughts, she studied him. Straight, firm profile—slightly jutting chin. A stubborn man? She’d have guessed that even without the chin. She followed the line of his neck, his shoulder, down his arm to the hand resting easily on the steering-wheel. Long fingers, slim and shapely. Would they have a deceptive strength? Be able to hold a woman captive in an iron clasp, yet still caress a breast with a silken touch?
The absurd fancy made her chuckle.
‘Is it a joke worth sharing?’ he asked.
‘Definitely not,’ she replied, grateful the shadows hid her burning cheeks.
‘Pity!’ he murmured. ‘A good joke can sometimes ease the tension.’
‘I’m not tense with you,’ she protested.
And she didn’t need his drawled, ‘Really?’ to underline the lie.
‘Well, you haven’t been exactly welcoming,’ she pointed out.
‘No? I thought I’d done the welcome thing quite well.’
She turned suspiciously towards him and caught the gleam of teeth that told her he was teasing, but she wasn’t ready to concede just yet.
‘Towards me, but not my work,’ she argued.
‘And is that not possible? Is your work so intertwined with who you are that you daren’t stand alone without it?’
The smile was gone and she felt his scorn scorch the words. Yet she felt it was important to answer honestly.
‘I don’t know!’ she told him. ‘Yes, my work is part of me, but because it’s important to me, not because it’s everything.’
‘So, we know there’s no golf, and you don’t put much stock in gourmet dining. What else is there, Caitlin? What other interests do you have?’
She’d have liked to have said reading, which had always been her favoured pastime, but if he asked her what she’d read recently she’d have been stumped, not having picked up a book for months. Or had it been years?
‘I like to walk,’ she said defiantly, thinking of the pleasure she’d found in walking up the road to the bakery.
‘Yet you drive a car that gets you from A to B faster than most vehicles.’
Connor was goading her deliberately, but why?
‘I walk when I have time.’ Caitlin said the words bluntly, folded her arms across her chest in what she recognised as a classic defensive gesture and turned to stare out the window.
Which was a wasted move, she realised as he pulled up in the hospital car park.
‘Like you eat when you have time,’ he said softly.
She turned towards him and he reached out and slid his knuckles gently down her cheek. ‘Has it been so tough, proving yourself in the scientific field? Have you always had to battle to prove you’re as good as any man, or any less beautiful woman?’
His sympathy was so unexpected a lump formed in her throat and threatened to choke her if she spoke. Shaking her head, she tried a smile instead and turned his words into a weapon.
‘Now, don’t go getting soft on me,’ she chided. ‘I can fight my own battles and I’ll take you on if you get in my way, Connor Clarke, so don’t think “nice” will change my mind about staying on in Turalla.’
He didn’t reply but opened the door. The interior light came on, revealing a smile he hadn’t time to wipe away before she saw it.
‘OK. I’ll try to remember that,’ he promised. ‘No more Mr Nice Guy, by order of the management.’
She knew he was teasing her—and found herself liking it. Shocked by the discovery, she sprang out of the car before he could come close again. They walked together around the hospital building, dimmed lights gleaming through drawn curtains.
Around the back, the kitchen door was closed. Nellie must have served the supper then gone home. There was a strip of darkness between the large building and her small temporary home and Caitlin was wondering at which point the security lights would come on when something scurried across her feet. She let out an almighty scream and flung herself at Connor.
He caught her body and she felt his strength and warmth—but couldn’t stop the uncontrollable trembling in her limbs or still the rapid beating of her heart.
‘Hey, it was a cat,’ he soothed. ‘I think it was intent on stalking some small prey and we startled it.’
‘Not as much as it startled me,’ she mumbled, and tried to pull away, embarrassed by her reaction—and by letting this man see her stupid fears.
But pulling away wasn’t easy. The hands she’d studied earlier were as strong as she’d suspected, and every bit as tender as they smoothed up and down her arms, her back, and kneaded at her neck, lifting the weight of her hair to touch taut skin.
‘It’s OK to get a fright,’ he said quietly, holding her tucked against his body while the fingers of one hand tilted her chin so he could look into her face. ‘Shows you’re human after all.’
Then his head bent towards her and his lips brushed hers.
‘Very human,’ he added.
She waited, breath held, for the kiss to develop, for him to finish what he’d begun, but he lifted his head, shook it as if to clear it, then turned her in his arms and guided her towards the house, the light coming on almost immediately.
The harsh glare made her fears seem stupid, and her fantasies even more ridiculous. She stepped away from him, thanked him politely for escorting her home and hurried forward to open the door.
It was the light from outside that caught the gleam of white on the floor, a tiny triangle, nothing more, the bulk of the note or envelope hidden by the mat. Caitlin was about to bend and pick it up, thinking Nellie might have come across with a message, or perhaps Melissa had called, then some instinct stopped the movement and instead she stepped inside, putting her foot over the tell-tale gleam—hiding it from Connor.
She turned on the inside light and glanced around the room. Everything seemed normal.
‘Goodnight,’ he said, but hovered as if he half expected her to ask him inside.
‘Goodnight, and thanks again,’ she replied, dashing his hopes. As he moved away, she closed the door and slumped against it.
She looked around the room, realising how little notice she’d taken of it earlier. Last night she’d been too tired, barely registering the polished timber floor, the patterned carpet square, imitation leather lounge chairs.
She lifted her foot and peered down at the tell-tale scrap of white, wondering if it could have been there when she’d arrived. Maybe she wouldn’t have noticed it in daylight, the white against the pale polished wood. Or perhaps she’d dislodged it with her foot when she’d been walking out earlier this evening—an old piece of paper left by a previous tenant of the house.
So why didn’t she stop wondering, simply bend down and pick it up? Have a look at it instead of guessing?
Because a totally unscientific and irrational sixth sense told her not to—to forget about it and go to bed, to kick it under the mat and let it stay there, out of sight and out of mind.
But would it be? Out of sight perhaps, but not out of mind. With a long sigh she knelt and carefully lifted the edge of the carpet square as if clumsiness might damage what was hidden there. It was a folded piece of paper, with printing and brightly coloured illustrations—a page out of a book of fairy-tales.
She chuckled softly at her fears and unfolded it but the laughter died on her lips as she stared at the picture. It was familiar enough—Sleeping Beauty in her glass case, waiting for the Prince to come and kiss her back to life.
Only in this illustration the glass box looked like a coffin, and the princess’s hands were folded on her chest in an attitude of death, not sleep. Then, as if the long golden hair might not be enough of a clue, someone had printed ‘Dr O’Shea’ very clumsily beneath the drawing, leaving Caitlin in no doubt as to the message.